


blessed be the time

by missgiven



Series: trim the hearth & set the table [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing, Disassociation, Rituals, Self Care, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgiven/pseuds/missgiven
Summary: Crowley doesn't feel like himself, feels scattered and everywhere and nowhere. He takes comfort in small rituals and Aziraphale's presence."It’s easy to snap his fingers and have the bath ready. Easier still to pester Aziraphale or look beguiling and pathetic until the angel offers to do it for him. But Crowley likes the ritual, likes the scents, likes moving matter around with his hands. It’s like smoking a cigarette or preparing a cup of tea. On days like today, when his brain feels like it’s vibrating, taking part in such simple nothing-rituals grounds him, makes him more aware that he’s a body and he’s happening now, not just a series of messy, overlapped, never-ending, always-reaching thoughts."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: trim the hearth & set the table [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564021
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	blessed be the time

He turns the tap and the water gushes on. He wiggles his fingers at it, gets it to the right temperature, plugs the bath. No use wasting water waiting for it to heat.

While the tub fills, he gathers supplies. Epsom salts. His little basket of oils. Large jar full of dried flowers from the summer. Little ceramic bowl Aziraphale had picked up at the local craft fair, a lovely white vessel with a linen-y sort of texture.

Salt in the bowl. Quick pour of oil in there - he’s working through a frighteningly expensive bottle of organic rosehip oil - and then onto the scents. Lavender. And eucalyptus too. He needs soothing but he needs something to keep him going.

He jabs at the contents of the bowl with a chopstick leftover from a takeaway (unused), giving it a nominal stir so the oils mix with each other and with the salts.

The bath is full so he turns off the water and goes over to sprinkle his mix in. Plunges an arm into the pleasantly scalding water to stir everything up and make sure the salts are dissolved. That done, he opens the jar of dried flowers and shakes it over the bath a few times.

It’s easy to snap his fingers and have the bath ready. Easier still to pester Aziraphale or look beguiling and pathetic until the angel offers to do it for him. But Crowley likes the ritual, likes the scents, likes moving matter around with his hands. It’s like smoking a cigarette or preparing a cup of tea. On days like today, when his brain feels like it’s vibrating, taking part in such simple nothing-rituals grounds him, makes him more aware that he’s a body and he’s happening _now_ , not just a series of messy, overlapped, never-ending, always-reaching thoughts.

He takes off his clothes - another little ritual - and makes to step in the bath, then thinks better of it. He withdraws his foot, shakes it off. Grabs the short silky robe from the back of the door and wraps it around himself, ties it shut. Forces himself to notice the deep charcoal grey color of it, to appreciate the way it smooths over his skin like water.

He pads out to the living room where last saw Aziraphale with his nose buried in a book and a cup of cocoa forgotten by his elbow. Yes, he’s still there. Crowley makes himself take another moment, to catalogue what he’s seeing. Curly white-blonde hair. Thick neck barely visible over the rumpled collar. Softly sloping shoulders that Crowley likes to bite. That Aziraphale likes to have bitten. Crowley smirks.

“Angel,” he says softly from the doorway. Aziraphale looks up, peeking over the useless reading glasses he wears.

“Oh, hello,” he says. His eyes clearly trace down and back up Crowley’s figure, snagging on the hem of the robe at mid-thigh and the collarbone peeking out from the neckline. He’s never subtle. Crowley loves it.

“Time for a bath, I think.”

“Is it? Very good, dear. Have a lovely time.” And he goes back to reading! The bastard.

Crowley considers taking it to heart, really _feeling_ the hurt that pings around his chest now, draining the bath and taking a three day nap to get over it.

That sounds less nice than what he was hoping for, so he tries again.

“You could come with me.”

Aziraphale stands up quickly, closing the book and setting it aside. He looks at Crowley with Intention. Crowley lets him, and he also lets him cross the room to crowd into Crowley where he’s still lurking in the door frame. Happily lets him slide a possessive hand over one hip, another one into Crowley’s hair, and kiss him soundly.

It’s a good kiss. It lasts a while.

When Aziraphale draws away, presses his lips to Crowley’s jaw, and begins to kiss down his neck, Crowley whines and presses into it. Then he takes a breath, presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest, stops him.

“I think I’d like you to just read to me, actually, angel.”

Aziraphale draws back. He looks confused.

Crowley can sympathize; it _had_ been a very good kiss.

“Maybe we can. Well. Ah. Later. But it’s a funny day and I. Need a bath and. You could read to me while I do. I know you like reading to me. And anyway I’ll be naked so you’ll get to gawk at me more, I know you like that.”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face has shifted from confusion to a tender indulgence that makes Crowley squirm.

“Darling. Of course I will.”

Crowley can’t say anything to that, so he doesn’t, only leads the way back to the bathroom. He slips off his robe, hangs it neatly, and slips into the tub with a sigh. The dried flowers he tossed in float around and some stick to his skin.

Aziraphale takes a few moments to join him, but when he does, he’s carrying a small stool and a book. He’s removed his sweater and tie. Crowley sits up in the tub, takes a tailor’s seat in the middle of it, feels sort of childish sitting in the bath while Aziraphale putters around.

He watches while Aziraphale sets the book carefully on top of the stool, then bends to cuff the ends of the horrible tartan trousers he’s wearing. His pale bare feet look vulnerable on the bathroom floor.

Aziraphale straightens, then he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, rolls up his sleeves. Crowley admires the hint of chest hair that peeks through Aziraphale’s open collar, admires his plump forearms.

Finally Aziraphale sits, picks up the book, arranges the fussy reading glasses on his nose.

Crowley drapes himself down into the hot water again, leans against the side of the bath, rests his head on his arm.

Aziraphale opens the book, begins to read.

“When Marry Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle…”

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the [lovely art](https://rennish.tumblr.com/post/189465136786/todays-advent-word-is-time-bath-time-and-a-fic) from my wife that inspired this fic!
> 
> Prompt taken from the instagram AdventWord. Day 3: Time.


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